


Jim’s Six Times at Baker Street: 2

by debunker



Series: Such a pity you're not home, Sherlock... But I'll wait. [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Moriarty's playing tricks, Sexting, Sexual Fantasy, Sheriarty - Freeform, TAB-inspired, Texting, Video Cameras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 15:29:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5670940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debunker/pseuds/debunker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically my brain exploded after TAB and I'm still collecting its tiny bits and sporting a hole almost rivaling that of Moriarty's.<br/>So Sherlock says Moriarty has got acquainted himself with his place and it took him 6 times to do so.<br/>Sounds like a prompt, doesn't it?<br/>This is the second time and Moriarty is willing to play with Sherlock's imagination. Well, as ever. So he sends him a box, practically leaves it on his desk while Sherlock is away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jim’s Six Times at Baker Street: 2

 

"Sherlock, you’ve got mail! They’ve brought a box, it’s on your desk.” Mrs. Hudson yells from the kitchen.

Sherlock is back from the police office and he’s pacing up towards the desk, undoing his scarf and squeezing it into the pocket of his coat.

Not a usual post box, a black one, no sign of the sender, nor that of the recipient.

Not a good sign, not good at all.

Sherlock is already vaguely aware of the sender. Not that he is hard to deduce. There is something in the air, something familiar, something almost unperceivable, but clinging and disturbing… and exciting. The slightest trace of a scent, a piercing, catchy, tickling, burning scent. _I’ll burn you…_ The scent Sherlock could sense since his last time away, the scent that penetrated each single centimeter of his place, the scent he could not wash off. Wash off his bed sheets, his body, his _mind_. What’s this scent? It’s so well-known. What is it?

Essential oils, cedar, cypress, juniper, a hint of lavender maybe… Ambery, woody…

Sherlock makes the faintest movements with his sensitive fingers, palping the air, opening the invisible curtain.

It’s on the tip of my tongue…

GOT IT! Gucci Rush. Yep.

Now the box, it is safe enough to touch? Sherlock is not sure of it. But is there any alternative? The curiosity is _burning_ his inside. Ok, slowly, take it, bring it to your room, doubt there’s anything inside of Mrs. Hudson’s concern.

_No rush._

Holding the box with one careful hand he closes the door tight.

There’s the slightest sound coming from its inside, a distant noise of what… paper? A small propeller? A ventilated bomb? Would be a little bit _boring_ for the sender.

Sherlock sits down on the bed and puts the box on the bedside table. He takes a deep breath and starts unwrapping it with hands betraying him a little. Too much of anticipation and some well, alarm, maybe.

What is revealed a minute later makes him startle a little.

It is a clear container divided in two parts with a clipper-like gate with a handle on top to open it. One part of it contains a grasshopper moving his horns cautiously and the other part is home to a pretty big black spider who has already settled down and prepared his web. It moves its legs slowly, in a hungry fashion, nasty and entrancing, making Sherlock feel curious and repulsed at the same time.

Spiders, grasshoppers, images invade Sherlock’s mind, his personal Wikipedia unfolds in an instant trying to find the corresponding breeds but the process stops abruptly. The inner Mycroft looks disapprovingly down at him and points his umbrella at the still not completely emptied post box.

“It’s not the breed that matters, Sherlock.”

So it not finished yet. There is a compact palmcorder waiting to be opened and Sherlock complies with the plan of his counterpart.

He opens it and presses play. A video starts.

It’s a spider eating a grasshopper, already wrapped up in it web and presenting no signs of protest.

A voice, _the_ voice starts the narration:

The spider sucks out the contents of the grasshopper's body, leaving only its hard exoskeleton enclosed in a silken tomb. The spider sucks all its internal parts, sucks the grasshopper dry to satiate the hunger, sucks until the grasshopper has nothing to give to the spider.

The spider on the display eats the grasshopper, its body inflating gradually as it gets more food. The scene is pretty hard somehow to see, very animal, very crude, still very natural and absolutely inevitable.

The voice is mocking and pinching, it rings in Sherlock’s head as a tiny bell, alarming and insistent.

Sherlock swallows hard. He feels strangely dizzy and excited.

He knows what he is supposed to do. Open the gate between the grasshopper and the spider. Let the spider eat the grasshopper. “Open the gate, Sherlock”, his inner Moriarty whispers in his ear. “ _Open the gate_.”

And Sherlock does. The grasshopper takes a desperate leap towards its death, the last seconds of his brief life finishing in the spider’s web. It startles stung by the spider and the next second starting to decompose under the effect of the venom, becoming a liquid dinner for an eager predator which has waited for it for a little bit too long.

Sherlock feels his hands are shaking a little, a tight knot in his throat as he watches the grasshopper being covered in web and prepared for the final step of the spider’s feast.

“Have you checked the inside of the box thoroughly?” his inner Mycroft raises his left eyebrow, skeptical and annoyed. “Do I need to tell you everything you have to do?”

Sherlock turns the box upside down and shakes it a little. A single joint falls on his lap. He takes it with his long fingers and brings it close to his nose, inhaling the smell. The same scent he sensed in the sitting room mixed with the sweet smell of the weed. He inhales deeper and imagines Moriarty rolling it with his hands, licking it with the tip of his tongue to close it. The tip of his tongue…

Never take drugs from strangers, Sherlock. Well, we are not strangers, are we? Sherlock fishes a lighter from the bedside table drawer. He’s given up smoking. Smoking cigarettes. And this is not a cigarette, strictly speaking.

Sherlock lies back on the bed and lights up the joint. The first drag hits right his back of the head, making him want to close his eyes. He takes another drag and watches the spider, almost through with his web, ready to finally eat. Sherlock takes several other drags, closing his eyes, looking inside his head.

_He's a spider. A spider at the center of a web._

A spider and a grasshopper. Grasshopper. Grass.

Sherlock starts feeling his body getting lighter and pleasantly slow. He likes puzzles, he likes allegories, he likes hints, he likes having a distraction. He likes the Game.

_Sucks him dry. Sucks him…_

_It’s on the tip of my tongue…_

Sherlock feels dreamy and somewhat clouded, stirred, excited, somewhat scared, deep, deep under.

“This is because it excites you, Sherlock. It’s erotic to you”.

“Bugger off, Mycroft. Not now.”

Mycroft disappears with a sour kind-of-smile.

This weed is good. Not so good as cigarettes, but still opens the mind a little.

_Open the gate, Sherlock._

Sherlock’s hand trips up his leg, then up his belly to undo the button of his blazer.

He made it with his hands and mouth. His hands and mouth. The image of Moriarty’s mouth licking the joint he’s smoking haunts Sherlock. Such a clever tongue it is…

The tips of Sherlock’s fingers brush over the fly of his trousers and Moriarty whispers close to his ear, “Touch yourself, Sherlock. For me.”

Sherlock struggles it, this is weed, he tells himself, drugs increase the blood supply to… to my body parts.

“Don’t fight it, I’d do it myself if I were there.”

Moriarty’s lips are glossy with his saliva.

Sherlock opens his eyes to compose himself and sees the spider eating, the grasshopper is ready now, all liquid inside. Just like him. The spider sucks the grasshopper, sucks it dry.

“You’d like me to do this to you, wouldn't you?” Moriarty’s closer, breathing into Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock almost lifts his hand to touch his face but the buzz of a text interrupts him.

Damnit! Now if it’s Mycroft…

But it is not.

“Film yourself. JM.”.

“What for, you’re already watching me. SH.”.

“I want you to watch yourself. JM.”.

“I know you want to watch yourself too. JM.”

“It’s showtime, sexy. JM.”

Sherlock’s head is light and his whole body feels so much more flexible and soft now.

He takes one last deep satisfying drag, almost feeling too full of smoke which he lets out from his mouth and grabs the camera with some hesitation.

His other hand trips down under the belt of his trousers. The shiver of excitement is dancing all over his still completely clothed body.

He pops the button of his trousers open and exhales in a way Moriarty finds innocent and sexy at the same time.

In the blurring mind of Sherlock’s Moriarty’s hands undress him, gliding down his hips, over his stomach, followed by his hungry, appreciative mouth. He feels the touch on his skin, a hot palm starting to tease his underwear.

_Oh, Sherlock…_

The grasshopper jumped into the web and the spider is ready to eat it. _Suck him dry…_

Do it, Jim.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Music: Soothe My Soul – Depeche Mode


End file.
